


better than i ever even knew

by doublejoint



Category: Bleach
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 01:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,026
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23367166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doublejoint/pseuds/doublejoint
Summary: Perhaps all of this, this slow dance toward putting his soft hand in hers, fingers wrinkled from the water, is terribly inadvisable, something he’d thought about not long enough and she’d thought about too long.
Relationships: Ishida Ryuuken/Katagiri Kanae
Comments: 4
Kudos: 11





	better than i ever even knew

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this without looking anything up and it's been ages since i read bleach so i apologize for any inconsistencies.
> 
> title from lana del rey's 'video games'
> 
> i'm so glad we'll finally get them animated :')

If there were justice in the world, a natural balance, some kind of equity, Kanae would have been alive in the golden age of the Quincy, her volleys of arrows flying true among the swarm, outshining them all. Perhaps she had been, a voice says in the back of Ryuuken’s mind. But how few Quincy souls have survived that other world, where Shinigami dissect and poke and prod them in the name of something that should be shocked and smite them for their actions? Perhaps if there were true equity, Kanae’s arrows wouldn’t shine so much against his own, against his parents’ or Masaki’s.

Selfishness keeps him glad that she’s here now, that he can see her, that his arrows can fly with hers, straight toward a pack of hollows, splitting the darkness with just enough light. It’s okay to be selfish, Ryuuken’s father had said, and at the time Ryuuken had dismissed it as self-justification; he’d felt the need to explain why he was never around. He’d had important things to do, supposedly, and--well, really, some of them were important. Some of them were just to keep him away from his wife and son and the other set of responsibility. Ryuuken’s mother is far from perfect, but she’d at least taken on his responsibilities on top of hers without complaint.

Is that really a virtue, though? Complaining wouldn’t solve the problem, and Ryuuken highly doubts that his father would be very easily guilted into coming home and taking care of things (and his mother probably hadn’t wanted him at home). Is gracefully dealing with a burden on one’s own a quality, a situation, that he wants? He certainly tries for it sometimes, but Kanae won’t let him. It’s her duty, she’s always said, standing across from him, feet planted, wrestling the weights out of his arms. When they were ten, she would take two or three of his heavy textbooks from the advanced classes into her backpack, walk a little slower but steel her face against his protests. When they were seventeen, she had stayed up late studying with him, drilling him on college entrance exams when Masaki had given up and the other servants had clearly tired of the duty. And her arrows would always sing through the air when his couldn’t, go to where his couldn’t. 

And, all this time, he has become no better at helping shoulder her burdens. Some of the old boundaries and constants have fallen away, but Ryuuken still feels pinned behind an invisible wall. Is she keeping him out, or is he keeping himself out? He seeks her out to talk, but he always has. He helps her with the dishes and the laundry, but that’s more of a burden for her and makes him feel more useless than usual, and makes his mother angry with Kanae and not with him. And despite that, she appreciates his intent--it’s not something she’d lie about.

Intent doesn’t matter so much as results, though, and selfishness when it knowingly adds to another’s burden isn’t beneficial.

She finishes the last dish, holding it up to the light and catching no stain. The whole room smells like soap and the last traces of dinner, roast pork and soup clinging to the air. The motions of her hand, washing, were practiced, thoughtless, the way Ryuuken’s are when punching numbers into the calculator. He could learn it; he should try with just a few dishes. His mother can yell at him; no one else will be around--perhaps that’s naive of him to think. Perhaps all of this, this slow dance toward putting his soft hand in hers, fingers wrinkled from the water, is terribly inadvisable, something he’d thought about not long enough and she’d thought about too long. 

“You’re overthinking something,” she says, turning to face him.

A lock of hair has escaped her updo, falling over her face. Her cheeks are pink; her smile bright and brilliant. If this is inadvisable, he wants to do the wrong thing again. He wants to kiss her; he wants to whisk her off away from her duties, from his, from his mother and the faint air of disapproval of the other servants. 

“Yeah,” he says. 

“Can I help?”

There’s a little concern seeping into the corners of her eyes, and he shakes his head. Then again--even if he can’t voice his thoughts to her aloud, there are other ways.

“Let’s go upstairs.”

He holds out his hand. She dries hers on the dish towel and takes it, her hand small and firm in his. He bites the back of his lip; will he ever be tired of this? Will he ever be simply used to it? He’s overthinking it again, wants to apologize but bites it back. Kanae is pulling him ahead and around to the stairs. He’d left his textbooks by the landing, and she’d left her mystery novel on top, weathered cardboard bookmark sticking out. 

On the sofa up here, his mother can’t disapprove too much. They can sit close to each other, tuck the blanket around both of them, and he can work and she can read. It’s perfectly respectable, perfectly innocent, even if his arm is slung over the top of the sofa, centimeters away from her shoulders. 

He reads until his eyes are glazing over, until he can’t pretend it’s because of the glare of the lamp or imaginary smudges on his glasses, until his jaw strains suppressing his yawns. Kanae is already dozing off beside him, her finger holding her place in the book. He nudges her; she blinks and sits straight up.

“Ah—”

“Bed,” he says, taking the book from her hands and placing the bookmark inside it, where she’d left off. 

She yawns, covering her mouth and then making to apologize.

“Please don’t?” he says.

“It’s impolite.”

“Doesn’t matter.”

“Yes it does.”

They’re both arguing to stave off the sleep; just lying down right here wouldn’t be the worst. But their rooms aren’t too far down the opposite ends of the hallway. She squeezes his hand; his stomach flutters. That’s enough to get him there.


End file.
